


Late

by Smauglicious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Dying Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Injured Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smauglicious/pseuds/Smauglicious
Summary: The last thing he heard was a shout. Panic rushed through John’s system as he clambered to his feet, swaying a little as he did so. There was a new found panic in his system now, the need to check if Sherlock was okay. He surveyed his surroundings with half opened eyes, still dizzy from the impact, unable to focus.John’s blood ran cold and a shiver ran down his spine as he looked forward in horror.The coppery, iron smell of blood was strong.





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> A kinda old work hanging in my drafts so I decided to post it!

There was an explosion.

 -

All John felt was pain and despair, he was immediately reverted back to the army days. The people yelling, screaming, begging for their lives, and john in the middle of it all, unable to do anything.

Weak, helpless.

John’s pupils were dilated, pain shot through him in every direction as he gasped for air, squinting to open his eyes amid the dust and debris. Where was he again? He was lying down flat with possibly a broken arm, slight concussion and his ears were ringing in the most horrible way.

He sighed, think.

Think.

What was he doing?

He must have blacked out, there must have been a fight. He turned his head to the side, observing his surroundings with practiced silence and skill. A fight, along with Sherlock most probably. He winced, lifting his other hand to cup his head, the thuds agonizing.

A man, a criminal and they had followed him here to find out that it was a trap. Then what? An explosion.

And suddenly, all the memories rushed to John’s head like quicksand. He moaned at the information overload and as he laid there, his throat constricted and his mouth went dry and heavy.

Sherlock.

Sherlock!

The last thing he heard was a shout. Panic rushed through John’s system as he clambered to his feet, swaying a little as he did so. There was a new found panic in his system now, the need to check if Sherlock was okay. He surveyed his surroundings with half opened eyes, still dizzy from the impact, unable to focus.

John’s blood ran cold and a shiver ran down his spine as he looked forward in horror.

The coppery, iron smell of blood was strong.

And he could just see, a pale, bloodied hand sticking out of the rubble, in the midst of destruction. John’s eyes widened as his face crumble to that of horror and despair, he choked out a gasp and covered his mouth in reflex.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

He limped, dragging his feet as fast as he could as he used his hands to dig through the ragged debris, to get Sherlock out of the rubble.

“No, no...”, he repeated.

Soon after, his hands were raw and bleeding and he managed to pull Sherlock up, carrying him in his arms and lying him down. There was a shocking amount of blood, seeping through the cracks and onto the ground surrounding Sherlock.

John grasped Sherlock tightly as he laid him on his lap, doing a once over, checking Sherlock's injuries. A shot to the thigh and a head wound. It was the head wound that was really scaring john, the amount of blood, head wounds produce a lot of blood, but this. This was an amount that was unbelievable in its own standards.

Sherlock stirred as John patted Sherlock's face softly, "Hey hey, wake up. Listen to my voice. Sherlock. "

Sherlock groaned as he squeezed his eyes shut, batting John's hand away weakly, barely able to lift his hand up. He peeked his eyes open, flinching at the dust that went into his eyes, his long lashes batted, trying hard to focus on the person who was talking to him.

Not good, it was not good.

Sherlock eyes were glazed, his breathing erratic and shallow and heart beating way too fast. He was also extremely pale, and it had made John’s breath stopped, he was so still just then, as if he was dead. John knew what which was going in shock when he saw one. And shock, with a severe concussion was very bad.

He bit his lips, looking around in desperation. They were trapped, in this place, and no one knew they were here.

“Oh god.” John scrubbed his hand down his face, horrified.

Where was Lestrade? Where was anyone?

They should have backup. They _should_ have backup.

He looked down at Sherlock, blood seeping in an astronomical rate as Sherlock started trembling, shivering as his fingers twitched, his lips a slight blue. John rushed to take off his shirt, scrunching it up and applying it to Sherlock’s bleeding head.

“No, no you can’t die here Sherlock. I won’t allow it.”

John half joked as he applied more pressure to the head wound, praying, praying that help would come soon.

John was going hysterical with desperation when Sherlock looked up, sucking in another precious breath, as he looked at John, his eyes dilated and unable to focus.

“J’hn?” He whispered, a small lopsided smile adorning his face as he grimaced when he shifted.

“J’hn? Am I dying?”

There was a tense minute of silence when John heart stopped as he controlled and stilled his breathing, a pain in his chest that grounded him like never before.

He had heard this phrase so many times when he was in Afghanistan, of hopeless dying soldiers, seeking comfort from their doctor as they took their final breath.

But never.

Never did John thought that he would actually hear this from his best friend, the person that pulled him out of that hell. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he laughed humourlessly, carding through Sherlock’s curls.

“No, no of course not Sherlock, don’t you sleep now.”

He continued talking to Sherlock for a while, reminding and patting Sherlock to remain awake. Soon, soon John would need to disregard the pressure and start doing his CPR. His mental list of symptoms and risks checking itself as he urged Sherlock to answer his questions.

Concussion, he mumbled.

Concussion, brain swelling, lack of oxygen, possible nerve damage from shot, loss of blood.

He listed it on and on, almost mechanical in his ways.

And just as he continued, there was a sudden beam of light shining through the rubble.

“Sherlock? John? You in there?” The voice of Lestrade flowed into John’s ears like a ringing bell.

Finally.

After an eternity.

_But Sherlock was already gone._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading!


End file.
